


But the world will keep on turning

by Kangoo (orphan_account)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Everyone is just implied and/or referenced to be there, M/M, Romance if you squint, Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-22 20:20:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7452694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Kangoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>But the world will keep on</i><br/><i>Turning turning</i><br/><i>You gotta keep that fire</i><br/><i>Burning burning</i><br/><i>I know you think you're in a hurry</i><br/><i>There's no need to worry</i><br/><i>Cause I can feel it</i><br/><i>Turning turning</i><br/><i>Our luck is turning around</i><br/>Turnin' - Young Rising Sons</p>
            </blockquote>





	But the world will keep on turning

**Author's Note:**

> My brother was kinda pissed we lost -the game was 70% trying to eliminate very adversary player until there wasn't anyone else to play, the rest was just witchcraft- so I wrote this to cheer _myself_ up, 'cause I'm not letting him read this. It's just 530 words thrown in relative order before I go to sleep, 'cause if I don't write this thing tonight I won't do it, ever.  
>  "I used to play football like you, then I took a French in the knee."

“I'm tired of losing all the time,” Antoine finally whispered, breaking the heavy silence that had settled on the room full of the exhausted French players.

“Agree,” Olivier answered, just as quiet and defeated. 

They were all sitting -flopping, for most of them- in Hugo's room on whatever surface there was, be it the bed, the couches or the ground for the newcomers. Some were still in their dirt shirts, but most were still damp from the shower they took to wash off the bitter taste of their defeat. They had come _so close_.

Hugo himself was sprawled on the bed, face first in the pillows, and hadn't uttered a word since they had left the stadium.

“It's my fault.”

Antoine stared at him, surprise of his sudden words, and frowned.

“No it's not. If it must be anyone's fault, it's mine for missing every time.”

The team captain muttered something none of them heard and rolled over. He looked… well, honestly, he looked terrible.

“I should have seen the ball coming,” He growled in frustration. “And I was so damn _close_ to catching it!”

Griezmann, being the closest to him -his head was hanging from the bed while the rest of his body laid across the mattress, legs thrown over Lloris' own-, took it upon himself to push him over the other side of the bed as a silent way of disagreeing with him. The man made an oddly satisfying 'thump' when he hit the floor, but didn't say or do anything.

The floor understood his misery.

“It's no one's fault,” Sissoko nicely translated for him. “Well, maybe the Portuguese team's, because they were everywhere.”

“And super violent!”

There was a general sound of agreement through the room as each one of them was reminded of that. 

After a few more minutes of brooding silence, Oliver stood up, yawned, wished them a good night of sleep, yawned again for good measure and left the room. He was soon followed by the rest of the team, leaving behind a weird sense of emptiness and misery. The former came from their sudden absence; the second was just the two members left being dramatic.

“You sleepin' here, tonight?”

Antoine had adopted the same position as his friend before him, slowly trying to smother himself in the many pillows. He groaned in answer, and didn't move a limb when he felt the mattress creasing around his legs. Hugo hauled himself up and nudged at his friend's side until he stopped taking so much place and at least made a little for him. Both were fresh showered, and the night was just as hot as the day: they barely shifted enough to be closer to each other, legs entangled and Antoine's head lodged just under Hugo's jaw so that his nose was pressed against the junction of his neck and shoulder. 

They fell asleep like that, clinging to each other on top of the covers like there was no other prize they wanted to hold more. This night, everything sucked, but there were a hundred more waiting.

They would kick the Portuguese Team collective ass in front of the whole world soon enough, anyway.


End file.
